


So this is The End

by theplaidsheep



Category: Soul Calibur
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-05
Updated: 2010-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-09 07:57:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplaidsheep/pseuds/theplaidsheep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SoulCalibur IV had many endings, and this is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So this is The End

It is a sorry and wretched gathering that assembles in the ruins of Ostrheinsburg town; mostly it is the remains of the Wolfkrone army, licking its wounds after going up against the worst of the devils spawned by the cursed sword. Only its princess and general had carried a challenge to the beast itself and while there is cheer at her victorious return to them, a cadre of battle-weary warriors in tow, it is tempered by the knowledge of death and loss that will follow them home; too many will return upon their shields this day.

Ivy can't remember the journey that has brought her here from the Tower, for her entire existence has become the pain that throbs and stabs and aches in every part of her, it is all she can do just to keep herself conscious. There is someone beneath her left arm holding her up-right, and her feet stumble along of their own accord; she can't remember who it is that has carried her all the way here, she can't even think why anyone would want to.

She can barely even think at all.

There are voices she can hear around her, and Ivy registers that she is no longer moving, or standing up for that matter. Words are being spoken softly in her ear and she flinches from them being so close that she can feel warm breath on her skin; Ivy shivers suddenly, feeling unaccountably cold. A moment later there is a blanket wrapped round her shoulders, it isn't soft at all, but it chases the chill from her body.

“Isabella?”

The sound of her name jerks her to attention immediately, since it is the name that no one outside of her home speaks to her with; Ivy blinks through a haze of agony, seeing only the brown of a tunic, a dark beard and eyes. She registers fingers gripping her by the jaw, her head being turned, green eyes meet her own and then her head explodes.

Ivy comes back to herself whimpering, her head still throbbing but the pain is less, replaced in some part by an almost freezing cold. She feels it running in small icy rivulets down the side of her neck and she wants to pull away from it, but it seems to be held irremovably in place.

“Isabella,” her name spoken again, the voice soft and deep. Tears sting her eyes, dampen her cheeks, she turns into the comfort of the sound and the unbidden memory it evokes.

“Papa?” she whispers, expecting the embrace of strong arms and the murmured litany that soothes her while she buries her face against his shoulder.

The shoulder that meets her cheek, though, is hard and cold, and there are no words that gently tell that the pain will fade, will not last. She can barely even feel the rise and fall of the chest that is pressed against her shoulder. It's all quite wrong and Ivy jerks herself upright again; the agony in her right side flares as she does so and she hisses, curving her body over and into the pain to try and relieve it.

She feels the hand, heavy on her shoulder this time, as it passes and Ivy turns her head to meet the eyes of the man who is minding her. Perhaps she ought to be more surprised than she is to find that her unbidden saviour is Siegfried Schtauffen, since the last clear memory she has of him is just before he brought the pommel of Soul Calibur down on her head.

His face is dirty, his expression grim, there is little emotion to be seen in his stony gaze. Ivy feels herself shrivel in humiliation, and quickly looks away again; it is only pain she admonishes herself harshly, and she had wept like a pathetic, weakling child, crying for her father. She deserves his scorn.

The armour-clad hand squeezes her shoulder slightly to catch her attention, and in her shame she can't quite make herself meet his gaze.

“Here,” his other hand is offering her a battered metal cup, containing something dark. “You should drink this, it will help.”

She accepts it without really looking at him and drinks. The liquid is warm and bitter, almost but not quite foul. It surprises her when the pain starts to recede almost immediately, she hadn't expected any concoction to work so swiftly. Not unless it was meant to knock her out, or to kill her.

Ivy's hand drops the cup; had she just allowed him to poison her? She turns to look at him accusingly, but Siegfried's gaze meets her own implacably.

“Why?” she hisses, why has he dragged her all this way just to kill her now?

“You need to rest, Isabella,” he tells her, his voice the same, deep timbre that had lulled her before. Except this time she hears the ragged edge beneath it that tells of a throat shouted hoarse.

“A fine thing you say, as if you actually cared. I still don't know why you just didn't kill me before...” The world becomes a haze in her vision, well what she can see of it, which is mainly him, but the feeling has left her body.

“I'm sorry,” is all she hears before blackness takes her sight.

_______________________________

The building, like many in the ruined township, is half collapsed, but to her practised eye it is as undisturbed as she last left it. Gingerly Ivy slides her way in through the remains of the doorway, the watery grey daylight that trickles in through gaps in the walls and ceiling providing enough illumination for her to see by.

Her pack is exactly where she stowed it in the back of a shadowed pantry and Ivy makes her way back outside again before holding it up to inspect for damage. As suspected she finds none. There is no life here in this barren place to even make the attempt.

Swinging it onto her back, mindful of her cracked ribs, Ivy heads back toward the encampment at the edge of the town where the army of Wolfkrone still sits, waiting on its wounded before breaking for home.

It has been several days since the events of the Tower – she casts a wary eye to the east to look at the unnaturally tall structure where it still sits glowering over the landscape – and she has spent a good deal of it unconscious.

Ivy supposes she ought to be grateful to the royal general for the care she has received at the hands of the army chirurgeons; certainly if was not for her, or for them, she would be quite dead. One of the many corpses now rotting in the tower. She hasn't quite come to a decision, yet, about what this means to her.

Approaching the edge of the encampment, Ivy trades a nod of acknowledgement with the guards who had witnessed her departure fifteen minutes earlier and continues on. Though canvas tents sit here and there, most of the army is sheltered in the abandoned homesteads, shops and other buildings and it is towards one of these she heads. Perhaps it is out of a sense of deference, or more likely a sense of separation, that the warriors who have benefited from Princess Hildegard's armistice have congregated together; away from the main body of the army, where it would be easy to slip away once they decided to take their leave. Even then, they mostly still kept each to themselves, tending their wounds till they would be fit to travel once more.

Already three of the East Asians have departed, a little over a day ago. Ivy had just about hidden her shock at the sight of the smallest, and most obviously youngest of them. The girl had looked to be little more than thirteen, perhaps a bit older, and Ivy had felt pity that the business of the cursed sword had swallowed someone so young.

She was a sweet and kind-eyed girl, who had been a very attentive nurse when Ivy had first woken. Perhaps they might have spoken on the girl's reasons for being here in the first place, but she spoke no English, and her native tongue was beyond even Ivy's experience.

Some of them Ivy recognised, the young woman wielding the halberd was one she had faced some years back and had bested. Her eyes had challenged Ivy across the camp-fire but little more. No one was in the mood for combat, and no one was about to break the courtesy of Hildegard von Krone.

Their part of the encampment is quiet on her return, and for a moment Ivy wonders if they have all packed up and left during her brief sojourn.

“The Greek sisters have left,” Siegfried says from behind her and Ivy jumps.

“Good,” she retorts, tersely, “the younger was beginning to grate on my nerves.”

With that she marches to the back of the cloth-hall they have set up camp in, where a set of storerooms have become sleeping quarters. There are only five, yet Ivy has managed to claim one to herself. No one wants to share with her, even in these circumstances and it suits her just fine.

“You found your belongings then,” Siegfried states the obvious, and she wonders if he speaks just to have something to say.

“Well no,” she states flatly, with only the barest of sarcastic edges to her voice, “but I found someone else's in the ruins and thought they would do just as well.”

Siegfried crosses his arms and looks annoyed. “Sarcasm does not become you, meinedamme.”

“And I wish you'd stop calling me that, it's ridiculous,” she snaps. “I am no one's lady, least of all yours.”

“Well you will not have me use your name, meinedamme,” he retorts mildly.

Oh he's baiting her and she knows it, but she rises anyway, because she isn't in the mood to play games with him. “My name is Ivy, use it and you'll find me more pleasant.”

“I can't imagine you being more pleasant than you already are, Isabella,” and there is hardness to his voice as he says her name, deliberately, as if he fully intends to rile her.

And damn the bastard, it works; her hand reaches up, fully intending to wrench Valentine from it's sheath and teach him some respect for her, but it falters mid-air as she remembers. Her sword is gone, destroyed by the shining crystal blade that mocks her from it's place on the back of the knight stood before her, a grim twist to his lips as he witnesses her action.

A crushing mix of humiliation and grief washes over her and sweeps away the anger. Cheeks burning, Ivy clenches her fist and drops it impotently to her side. “Shut up!” She commands, her voice breaking; turning away she vanishes back into the store room that is her sanctuary so she will not have to bear the sight of him.

He is gone by the time Ivy has finished the inventory of her pack's contents but she finds the remainder of her absent companions are also returned from where-ever it is they had gone and are coaxing a fire from last nights embers. The woman, Xianghua, greets her cheerfully in barely understandable English and asks if she wants to join them for the midday meal. Ivy agrees since she is hungry. Lunch is once more the ubiquitous porridge that keeps a marching army on it's feet when there is nothing else to be had.

Staring down at the sludge in her bowl, Ivy considers once more her situation, and quite horrifyingly feels hysterical laughter trying to force it's way up her throat. Thankfully it dies quickly, swallowed by the yawning emptiness that has become so familiar to her over the years. The East Asians sharing the fire with her chatter between themselves with honest camaraderie and affection, quite oblivious to the quiet despair of their companion. She wonders what they talk about, are they planning their return home? Do they have a future to look forward to?

Ivy sees the way the woman looks to the man who wields the staff, her eyes can barely tear themselves away from him. Does he know of her feelings? Is he trying to avoid them or is he honestly oblivious? Xianghua's eyes catch her own for a moment, and Ivy sees the woman's cheeks colour slightly, and her eyelashes flutter in embarrassment at being caught mooning.

Ivy looks away, and attends to her food; it may be unappetising, but it will keep her stomach quiet. She retires to her room afterwards, lying in the semi-darkness and staring up at the ceiling, listening without really hearing the conversation that still continues without.

Perhaps it is time for her to leave too. Ivy reminds herself that she does in fact have a home to go back to, even if she has lost most of the driving force behind her will to live. Her head injury, while not completely healed, is no longer preventing her from standing upright and walking; though she is still getting the occasional dizzy spells it is nothing. The twisted knee and the sprained ankle are still somewhat painful but also nothing she can't deal with, not when compared to the constant ache of her cracked ribs. Perhaps in the morning, she will go before the royal general to acquire horse and sword with the gold in her possession, then at least she can be on her way.

It will be something to do, while she tries to figure out her place in the world again.

In the end she sleeps.

When she escapes from the dream, several hours later, she tries not to hate the fact that she is still alive.

_______________________________

They are all gone, now; the last of them departed this morning and she is the only one left.

Ivy sits outside the building that is empty of all but herself now, and Siegfried, who she hasn't seen since he went to see them off. She doesn't particularly care about where he has gone, because when he is here, he tries to talk to her and she doesn't want that. Instead she is sat, almost out in the middle of the street, leaning back against the remains of an over-turned cart and staring up at the Tower that soars out from the landscape, contemplating her own departure.

She is starting to wonder if she has left some important part of herself up there, something that once upon a time filled this tired, empty shell she has become. The sky is grey, and she feels greyer. A miasma of death still permeates the air, even a full week after the battle was spent, but that is the special nature of this place, that it holds the horror and the pain of all the lives that have passed through.

Ivy wonders if she will become it if she stays here long enough; that perhaps she will dwindle into a mere spectre, the mournful cry of her soul another voice in the wind.

Siegfried's footsteps announce his presence before his voice breaks the silence. “I have come to tell you,” he says, “ that the army will break camp tomorrow. We are heading back to Wolfkrone.”

Of course Ivy doesn't miss the possessive 'we'; Siegfried, she has noticed, has made himself very cosy with the royal general and it is in her presence that he spends most of his time, now.

“I understand,” she replies, without turning her head to look at him, instead she pushes herself to her feet and walks on passed him into the cloth-hall. If she is to leave tomorrow, she should best prepare.

Siegfried follows her inside and she feels the silence draw out awkwardly between them, as he waits for her to say something more. Ivy expects he is waiting for her confirmation that she will be departing too, on her own if not with the army.

Surveying her very spartan sleeping quarters, she establishes that there will be very little to do in terms of packing, the main things she will need to attend to are weapon, mount and food supplies. She hears Siegfried clear his voice outside.

“You can join us, this evening, if you wish,” he says. “It's not necessary for you to stay here on your own.”

Ivy comes back out into the hall again, “No,” she replies. “It is a kind offer, but no, I make the men uncomfortable as it is, we'll all feel better about it if I stay here.” It had been kind-hearted Kilik in his halting English who had explained to her that during her convalescence in the hospital her unconscious murmurings had been heard by all those around and revealed more about her connection to the cursed sword than she would ever wish anyone to know.

It was why she had woken in the cloth-hall, out of sight and out of reach.

Siegfried's feet shuffle for a moment, as if he is trying to make himself leave but unable to do so.

Ivy lets him be to see if he can work out the inner conflict on his own, while she pokes at the embers on the fire and wonders if she has left it too long to coax it back to life with fresh kindling.

Happily the dry moss catches and passes it's flame to the twigs, Ivy finally turns back to the indecisive man. “What's the matter, Siegfried?” She asks with more patience than she actually feels.

“I was thinking... then... perhaps... that I might stay here?” It seems to take great pains for him to to force the words out from his lips and they end on a question that sounds pathetically hopeful.

Ivy stares at him for a moment, at the way his gaze slides from hers and he shuffles his feet once more. He looks very young all of a sudden. A smirk twists her lips. “Don't tell me your warrior princess has worn you out already?”

Siegfried's head shoots up and he looks baldly shocked at her question. “I... what? No! I mean, no that... I-she-for heavens sake, Isabella, how on earth can you ask me such a thing?” And he sounds so ridiculously scandalised that Ivy cannot help the laughter that springs from her throat.

“Oh good lord,” she gurgles, “your expression was priceless!” Tears are welling in the corners of her eyes; it has been so long since she has been touched by so strong an emotion that isn't anger, determination or despair. Oh! So perhaps she can still feel after all...

Siegfried is staring at her, eyes narrowed, and he seems to be debating as whether to take further offence from this. Finally, his expression relaxes into one of wry humour and he drops down next to her to wait as her giggles finally recede and she wipes away the tears.

“Enjoy that did you?” He asks, cutting a glance towards her, his mouth quirking up at one corner to show he is taking her laughter in good humour.

“Yes, quite,” Ivy is finally able to speak again. “Seriously, Siegfried, I never expected you to be so coy.”

“I never expected _you_ to be so... so indelicate!” Siegfried retorts.

That sets her off again. “I admire your word-choice. I would have gone with crude, or vulgar or perhaps even ribald. Instead you sound like my mother; indelicate indeed!”

“Well I'm very glad I'm providing you with an evening's entertainment,” Siegfried huffs, and now he is clearly starting to get fed-up with jokes at his expense.

“You are quite,” she leans forward to pat his knee before getting to her feet, “perhaps you should stay after all, I can't remember the last time I laughed like this.” Ivy goes to fetch more wood for the fire, piling it on to encourage a larger blaze, she may as well use all of it since it will be her last night here.

By the time she sits back down, Siegfried is in the process of removing his armour. “So you actually are going to stay here tonight then,” Ivy says and it isn't a question.

Siegfried only grunts his affirmative, struggling a little with the buckles beneath his pauldrons.

“Here, let me help.” She is feeling a little more charitable towards him now, since he has been so kind as to make her laugh. Ivy slides her longer, slender fingers beneath the metal and quickly works the buckles loose; the first pauldron falls away into Siegfried's waiting hand and he sets it to one side while she works on the other.

“I don't think I've ever seen you take this off,” she comments. “I was actually starting to believe you even slept in it.”

“Believe it, I have,” he tells her. “It's not the most comfortable bed in the world, as you can imagine.”

“Hmm,” Ivy replies, her thoughts distracting her while her hands unthinkingly help him pull the cuirass over his head. “Seriously, Siegfried,” she says, “you do not think Princess Hildegard will come looking for you?”

“No,” he answers, without looking at her, “she will be early abed tonight, there will be a great deal to do tomorrow to set the army on it's way and we should be well rested.” He has studiously managed to avoid the implication that in any other circumstances he would be sharing her bed.

Ivy is fairly certain that he has been though, there have been too many nights spent away from their own small encampment to think otherwise. Of course, that is not to say he has gone to her bed entirely willing, for she has witnessed a certain level of subservience in Siegfried this past week, and she would be quite willing to put it down to the princess he serves. It's not something Ivy really understands, but she suspects it has something to do with what happened in the final battle against Soul Edge. The details of which she is still missing, since Siegfried hasn't yet seen fit to share them with her.

“Isabella?” His voice calls her back from her thoughts and she turns her attention back to him.

“Ivy,” she tells him, “my name is Ivy.”

“I know your name is Isabella,” he is stubborn and refuses to back down on this. She can't understand why this is, this strange obsession he has with her name.

“So did Nightmare,” Ivy counters, and watches the way his eyes darken in the failing daylight and the flickering glow of the fire. “He called me Isabella too, if you remember. Perhaps you can tell me why it is so important for you to do so.”

Siegfried's face goes like stone, almost motionless but for the slight grinding of his jaw as he stares at her. Finally he looks away. “I'm sorry,” he says, voice hoarse. “I will call you Ivy if you wish.”

“I do,” she says softly, “thank you.”

The silence stretches on into the evening; food is shared with barely a word between them. Siegfried makes no further attempt at conversation and it is something she appreciates. At the moment he is leaning back against his piled armour, slitted eyes gazing into the fire, looking a hairs-breadth from sleep. The night is quiet with the others now gone. She hears the occasional shout from the main encampment, but otherwise all is still. Ivy thinks it maybe time to sleep herself as the fire is becoming hypnotic to her eyes and they are growing heavy...

Jerking herself awake, Ivy thinks it is most definitely time to retire. Crawling over to Siegfried, she pokes his shoulder.

“Hmm?” is the incoherent response, he blinks up at her, and it's clear he was just about asleep.

“Time for bed, Siegfried,” she says. “If you plan on being well-rested, I doubt you'll find it sleeping on your armour.”

He doesn't answer, just stares up at her, kneeling over him, green eyes dark and glassy with a rather strange expression on his face.

“Siegfried?” Ivy tries to suppress the slight feeling of panic as she tries to break the spell of his gaze with her voice. His eyes are far too open for her comfort, reflecting an abyss that calls too easily to the emptiness inside of her.

“You know,” and the voice that says the words isn't one she recognises from him. It sounds like it's being strangled in his throat. “You know, don't you.”

It isn't a question and Ivy backs away from him, but Siegfried's eyes follow her, seeking till he holds her gaze; and once he has it she feels something shift uncomfortably deep inside, squirming beneath the scrutiny that sees passed the hollows behind her eyes to the very heart of her.

“They come for you in the night, do they not?” he whispers, voice harsh, but from anguish not cruelty. “Their faces, their voices, their accusations, they chase you from your dreams and there is never any escape, because no matter how you try, you can't stop yourself from falling asleep.”

“Stop!” she commands, but her voice has all but vanished. The panic rises inside her; she doesn't want him to know this about her, she doesn't want him to see, to understand, or to care.

“You hate the fact that you're alive as much as I do, but I couldn't bring myself to do it,” and Siegfried is almost weeping now: his breath catching in his throat, his eyes glossy with tears. “I couldn't bring myself to kill you, not after she forgave me... Isabella, I'm so sorry.”

He is on his knees slumped in misery and she stares at him through eyes that feel like windows, as if they aren't even eyes. There is something akin to nausea churning inside her. Wordless, Ivy reaches out to touch his cheek, feeling the wetness of his tears against her fingers. He looks so wretched and pathetic, she thinks, taking his face in both her hands and staring down almost pityingly at him.

He stares back at her with eyes that seem too wide, too big, for his face, and she feels herself being sucked down into those bottomless pools again.

“I'm so sorry,” he whimpers again, and his apology seems to encompass every wrong he has ever committed.

“I know,” she whispers, before her mouth closes on his. If she must live because of him, then she will claim this as her due.

_______________________________

The next day dawns as dully as the last and Ivy watches the grey light seep into the building and creep across the dirty stone floor. Siegfried's arm is curled securely round her middle and she can feel the heat of his breath against the back of her neck. There is something comforting in the fact he is still here, that he is able to sleep in her presence; though granted they didn't allow much time to get a great deal and Ivy herself has only dozed since exhaustion finally claimed their bodies in the early hours.

Careful not to disturb her sleeping lover too much, Ivy stretches out her legs beneath the blanket and her arms up above her head, feeling joints crack and the line of her back straighten. She is getting old, she thinks, how much longer will it be before the swelling of the joints that plagued her mother will begin to plague her too? Ivy hasn't thought much about the future, too fixated on the destruction of Soul Edge and the demise that must surely go with it.

Perhaps she ought to have given more thought to the possibility of surviving, especially since the majority of the soul that bound her to the sword is gone, devoured by that cur of a sire. Still, she had managed to convince herself that the likelihood was slim, the artificial soul that kept her from death was an incomplete entity, the resources used to construct it finite, so surely it wouldn't last long? Yet even that is proving to be more resilient than expected, and certainly Ivy does not feel any wavering in the vitality it is giving her, she might last sometime longer yet, even a full lifetime.

Strangely now, the prospect doesn't seem quite so horrifying.

Movement behind her and she hears Siegfried mumble something incoherent against her shoulder. Ivy turns in his embrace so she is facing him and inspects his sleeping countenance. He looks younger than she expects. Ivy isn't sure of his exact age but she knows him to be several years younger than herself at least; but if she takes away the scar and the frown-lines that mar his forehead, eyes and mouth he looks like a young man barely out of his youth.

Then his brow furrows, lips pressing together in a thin line, eyes fluttering beneath closed lids. Siegfried's head suddenly jerks into the bed-pad as if he is trying to pull away from someone and Ivy feels his entire body tense against her own, the hand at her back curling into a fist.

She recalls his words from the night before, the ones that pierced through the void of her heart and laid bare the secret horrors of her soul. “_Their faces, their voices, their accusations_..._they chase you from your dreams and there is never any escape_...”

Ivy presses her fingers to his cheek, “Siegfried,” she commands, “Siegfried wake up.” Predictably nothing comes of it. Besides, Ivy prides herself in knowing a much better way to wake a man sweetly from his sleep.

Siegfried is rolled onto his back without resistance, and Ivy crawls atop him, pressing her lips to his mouth, to his cheeks, to his eyes in light, tender kisses. Her hand reaches between them to take him in a gentle grip, fingers massaging. She returns her lips to his once more, the kisses now firmer and lingering, the tip of her tongue teasing the line of his mouth.

He wakes with a start, his entire body jolting beneath hers, eyes flying open, and Ivy is suddenly tumbled onto her back and the full weight of him is on her. Ivy smirks up at him blinking down at her, the sleep still in his eyes.

“Good morning, Siegfried.”

He doesn't answer, just stares down at her with haunted green eyes, perhaps trying to remember why he is in her bed. It's not really the reaction Ivy wants, and so she squirms beneath him, trying to remind Siegfried of exactly where he is and what he should be wanting from her. He flinches at the movement.

“What's the matter, Siegfried?” Ivy finally asks, irritation edging her voice. “You weren't this hesitant before, regretting it already?”

Siegfried's mouth presses into a thin line, and he shakes his head; his gaze is becoming increasingly penetrating and Ivy shifts her eyes from his, squirming under him again but this time in discomfort. “I wish you'd stop looking at me like that,” she mutters to the ceiling over his left shoulder.

“You knew I was dreaming,” he finally says.

Ivy brings her gaze back to meet his, almost defiantly, pursing her lips in annoyance. “Yes,” she says flatly, “I could tell.”

“And so you decided to wake me up... _that_ way?”

Ivy snorts. “Next time I'll just hit you,” she retorts, but the words are almost swallowed by his mouth descending on hers.

The kiss is deep and demanding, exactly what she wants, and Ivy wraps arms and legs around him, letting herself be pressed into the bed-pad. Siegfried has a good body, she likes it very much; while he lacks in height he makes up for it in broad, muscled shoulders and a hard, lean torso that feels very good against hers. Most importantly, though, he has length and experience enough to satisfy her, and already she is feeling the wetness in anticipation of one more good tumble before they are both on their respective ways.

Siegfried finally pulls out of the kiss, leaving them both panting, then rather sweetly he nuzzles his nose against hers, snatches one more fleeting kiss from her lips and starts moving down her body.

Ivy moans at the feel of his hands and mouth on her; they grasp at her curves possessively, blunt nails scraping against her skin and the sharp edges of his teeth nip at her flesh between the soft press of his lips. She twists and arches beneath him, trying to indicate her need without words, pressing up to rub against the rigid length of him.

Siegfried tenses and a groan is muffled against her breast as she continues to tease him. His retaliation is to take a nipple into his mouth, to suck and tease with his tongue, while he rubs his cock into her slick folds.

“Yes...” Ivy's sigh is drawn out on a hiss, spreading her legs wider to invite more of that wonderful friction.

Siegfried draws back from her then, up onto his knees to stare down at her, gloriously naked and open, gazing up at him in wanton lust. He can barely comprehend how she has given herself so readily up to his desire, especially as their first coupling had been as violent as any battle, but when he had reached for her again, she had allowed it. He found then how her satisfied cries as he buried himself inside her stirred his heart, the feeling of her limbs wrapped around him in desperate need making him want to love her.

And perhaps he already did in a way; a way that stilled his tongue when she questioned why he called her Isabella, because to reveal that would invite her scorn and contempt. It was nothing more than the lusting of a boy, trapped in the thrall of a demonic sword, grasping desperately onto the one beautiful thing in his life. It is still a remembrance that remains deep in his heart though, after all else of that horrible time has been forcefully exorcised. It's echo inviting the embrace she had sought from him the night before, that constantly brought him back to her despite her dismissal of his presence, that made him poke and prod to gain any sort of reaction from her towards him.

“Siegfried,” Ivy murmurs, her hand reaching down to wrap firmly round his length, pulling sweetly to bring his attention back to the here and now. It's almost painful how his heart contracts at the sound of her voice saying his name, with such teasing longing.

Siegfried moves his hands up her thighs, pressing them up and further apart so her tender flesh is completely exposed to him. He slides two callused fingers into the slick folds, parting her outer lips further; he recalls how she wrapped her lips round the head of his cock, watching almost awed as his length vanished into her mouth and vows then to return the favour.

He pulls her hand from his erection and slides further down and Ivy props herself up on her elbows to watch him. The scent of her draws him in as surely as the sight of her sex, flushed pink and swollen with desire. Without hesitation or any warning Siegfried lays into her with a single stroke of his tongue and is immediately rewarded with a gasping moan from his lover. Her fingers slide into his hair and stay there, giving him no way to escape, even if he wanted to.

He wriggles his tongue in further, exploring her sex, lapping eagerly at her bud and holding her hips down when she bucks against his mouth in response. Isabella whimpers, body held still yet shuddering against him as he suckles at her folds and circles her entrance with the tip of his tongue before diving inside as far as he can.

Her voice is crying his name, crying out obscenities that ought to be shocking coming from so well-spoken a woman. Her fingers drag at his hair, pulling on his scalp, and it should be painful, but all he can concentrate on is the taste of her and the sound of her. He sends a finger in to join his tongue and slides it deep inside her.

Isabella shrieks and her inner walls clamp down on him, he thrusts into her roughly as he rides out her orgasm with his tongue pressed against her bud. He wants to make sure she never forgets him or this.

She lies still and panting when he withdraws himself from between her thighs. Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, her mouth red and full and skin in heated blush. Siegfried leans over and kisses her gently, teasing her with the brush of his hardness against her belly, a reminder that he isn't done yet.

Ivy's mouth opens beneath his, her tongue diving into him as his has so recently done with her. Her hands cup his face and her legs tangle round his.

“Are you going to fuck me now?” she asks him sweetly, her voice a low murmur against his lips.

“Oh, good lord, yes!” Siegfried groans before claiming her mouth once more.

He pulls back from her again, but not far, just enough to slide a little further down her body and press the head of his cock up between her thighs. She angles her hips just so against him and he finds himself once more inside, pushing his length into her heated channel till he can go no further.

“Ah, Siegfried,” she murmurs into his hair, slowly grinding her hips into his, “that is so very good.”

“Yes,” he whimpers in agreement.

“I want it all from you,” Ivy tells him, drawing her nails across his shoulders and feeling him shudder “Give me everything you have.”

“Whatever you want.”

“Good,” she whispers, feeling his hips flex against her own and the length of him move inside her.

Yet he begins so slow at first, it's frustrating; Ivy doesn't want him to do what he did before they finally succumbed to exhaustion during the night. She doesn't want gentle; tender; _human_. It brought too much out in her, had made her cling tightly and try and drown herself in his want, made her want to try to fill the hollow inside.

So instead she pushes at him, pushes till she is upright in his lap and has some control, till she is staring down at him and holding him fast while she moves her hips hard against his.

Siegfried groans, head falling back and eyes closing as the pleasure overwhelms him; his fingers dig into her flesh almost painfully. _Harder, _her body is crying, _harder, it's still not enough! _It doesn't hurt and she so very much needs it to hurt, just a little, just enough to keep this purely physical.

“More!” Ivy hisses, struggling in his grasp. “You're still not fucking me hard enough!”

He is gazing up at her again, green eyes so intense and staring; the very thing she is beginning to hate about him. And he just grins, knowing well enough all he is denying her and it makes the fury grow.

“You wanted all of me, meinedamme,” he reminds her.

“Siegfried!” she yells outraged, barely noticing as he tumbles her back to the bed-pad.

“Yes, meinedamme?” he asks innocently as he finally drives himself into her exactly like she wants.

He is answered by a moan of satisfaction. “Don't you dare stop, you teasing bastard.”

Siegfried's mind presents any number of smug retorts to that, but what actually comes out is a weakly muttered: “Oh, definitely not.” He presses his mouth into her throat to give it something else to do.

It's no where near as brutal as their first coupling, but neither is he being gentle, and with her hips angled just so... oh lord, it feels almost perfect. Damn him! Ivy lies helplessly ecstatic beneath his moving body, unable and unwilling to move, every part of her drawn to the way his hips pound hard against hers, bone to bone. A steady rhythm beating apace to her own heart, it brings with every thrust a burst of wondrous sensation that drives her voice from between her lips.

It's almost unbearable. Ivy bites her lip against the cries being forced from her; concentrates instead on the discomfort of his hands clamped round her wrists, holding them at her sides – apparently he doesn't want her to flay his back raw with her nails, though god knows he deserves it – his not inconsiderable weight is pressing down on her from there.

She tastes the bitter tang of her own blood.

Siegfried is staring down at her once more and Ivy is tiring at his constant attempts to divine her soul, so instead she meets his gaze, opens wide and lets him see if he can. If he is thinking to find any kind of redemption in her through this he is sorely mistaken. Eyes locked, they hold each other; there is a void between and they are throwing themselves into it, yet still they find each other, meeting somewhere in the abyss despite themselves.

Tears sting her eyes, and Siegfried's mouth is crushed to hers; Ivy finds she can no longer keep silent, even as she hears his voice whimpering against her lips. He may be weeping, but he is also rising to climax inside her once more, the urgency of his thrusts increasing till with an almost anguished cry he is pressed all the way inside her, grinding their hips together uncontrollably till he stills, completely spent.

Her orgasm takes her quietly in the wake of his, for which she is grateful and Ivy lies sprawled beneath her lover making no attempt to move. The full weight of his body is pressing hers into the bed-pad, chest heaving against her breasts and the heat of his breath against her collarbone, hips resting heavily in the cradle of hers.

Right now it seems, it is enough just to feel that.

But then Siegfried's arms slide beneath her and gather her to him, his face pressing further into her neck and Ivy cannot help them but wrap her own trembling limbs about him. They hold each other tightly but no longer with any hint of the desperation that had clung to their coition. Ivy closes her eyes, buries her nose in Siegfried's hair and just breaths.

_______________________________

 

Ivy watches, wrapped in her blanket and curled on her side, as Siegfried dresses. The silence lies heavy but comfortable between them. Words are spent, there is nothing left to say that hasn't already been spoken eloquently enough with their bodies and the quiet is welcome.

She rises to sitting as he pulls on the last of his armour; encased in his steel shell he looks once more as he ever has: untouchable, impenetrable, almost inhuman. Soul Calibur is swung into place on his back and completes the transformation.

Siegfried glances to Ivy once before walking towards the open door of the cloth-hall, but she remains still, untroubled by his incipient departure without even a word of farewell. The understanding they have reached no longer requires it, for a single shared look tells that 'I know' and it needs no more than that.

Siegfried pauses at the doorway though, pressing a hand to the frame before looking back at her again. Ivy holds his gaze this time, without fear of what he might see. They each have served their purpose to the other, and Ivy feels at peace with herself for the first time since accepting her fate as a child of Soul Edge.

There is a fleeting hope that she has given him a little of the same, if not the redemption he is seeking.

A ghost of a smile crosses his lip, little more than a softening of his hardened features, and Ivy returns it just as faintly, and then he is gone.

Ivy remains where she is for some time after before finally rising to her feet and stretching out. She feels good and sated despite the various small aches and pains that plague her. Most of them are a consequence of her recent battles, some, however, were born in the night and she can trace with her eyes the dark imprint of his fingers and red marks of his teeth upon her flesh.

Her usual travelling attire would be more appropriate for today, rather than her battle leathers, Ivy decides. Apart from not wanting to call attention to herself, she has no desire to display the trophies of her night with Siegfried, especially to Hildegard von Krone.

Soon enough she is dressed and with her pack shouldered, making her way through the encampment of the Wolfkrone army. No one appears to notice as she passes, far too distracted with the business of breaking camp. It doesn't take long for her to reach the royal army headquarters; set up in the remains of the market hall, it's large enough to hold the tents of the general and her commanders.

The whole place is in a state of controlled disarray as the tents come down and the contents are packed up for the long journey back. The war-table is still in place though, and attended by Princess Hildegard, studying the map that covers most of the surface.

The woman in question looks up to watch Ivy's approach, aware even before guard escorting Ivy can announce her presence.

“Madam countess,” Hildegard greets first, and Ivy is a little taken aback that the princess is aware of her English status. “I was hoping we might have the opportunity to meet before we left. Siegfried mentioned you were still here, I assume you are planning your departure also?”

Ivy nods, just a little stiffly, wondering what Siegfried has been telling the woman about her, “Your Highness, I was indeed planning to be on my way, I wished to stop by first and thank you for the assistance and hospitality of your encampment.”

Hilde almost waves the thanks aside. “It is no trouble, you were here on the same mission as the rest of us, I wouldn't abandon a sister or brother-in-arms. It is good to see you have recovered.”

Ivy can't help but squirm a little inside at the young woman's words, unused to any kind of stranger's concern for her well-being, and besides if the princess knew anything of Ivy's history she doubted Hildegard would have been so charitable. That said she had taken in Siegfried, so perhaps she is doing the princess a disservice. “Still,” she replies, “you have my thanks, and I will remember it. I do have one request, however, I'm now in need of a horse and a sword to see me back home, and I wish to purchase from you if you have them to spare.”

“Of course I do,” Hildegard replies and with a grimace at the sad implication of why she does. “I will not hear of you paying for them, though.”

Ivy might have argued, but she is content enough just to accept the gift and be on her way. The princess signals to Ivy's attendant guard, giving out swift orders to bring one of the war mounts to the market hall, before beckoning Ivy to follow her.

They leave the building, Hildegard leading Ivy a short distance to where they army's armoury has been set up, by an abandoned forge that had been pressed back into service by Ostrheinsburg's temporary inhabitants. Like everything else it is in the middle of being packed away for the journey back to Wolfkrone, but the royal general waves a hand to indicate the racks of swords that have yet to be retired to the cart, indicating for Ivy to take her pick.

Ivy tries to choose quickly, if only to prove to herself that she is not grieving the loss of the sword she herself created, forged in hot alchemical fires out of alloyed steel, magic and her own insanity. She tries not to linger too long, assessing the quality of the blades against the one that had been bound to her in blood and spirit. It isn't a betrayal she tells herself as she finally wraps her hand round the worn leather hilt of a bastard sword and sheaths it in the proffered scabbard.

It really isn't. It was just a sword, another link in the chains of the curse that bound her to Soul Edge, she should be glad to be so well rid of it. It is gone, and Soul Edge is gone, as is most of the soul that poisoned her very being. And she will ignore how heavy her heart feels.

Hildegard watches her carefully, and in silence, brown eyes sharply taking in Ivy's deliberation and eventual choice. “I imagine,” the young woman says after a moment in which they begin walking back towards the market hall, “that it must be a poor replacement for the one you lost. Quite a remarkable blade.”

Ivy snaps her head round to stare, almost uncomprehendingly at the princess. “I beg your pardon?” Who was this woman to know of Valentine when Ivy was fairly certain she was unknown to her?

“I saw you,” comes the explanation, and those brown eyes are still and watchful, “fighting Siegfried in the Tower, the two of you were quite well distracted with each other, I walked straight passed and neither of you noticed. I suppose I ought to thank you, I might never have had the chance to battle the Azure Knight otherwise. What is strange to me though, is that Herr Schtauffen swears to me you are not enemies, and in fact were once allies.”

Ivy is honestly dumb-founded, something that hasn't happened often in her life, and for long seconds she is silent and staring while her mind seeks a response. “Once,” her voice finally speaks, and it sounds neutral and matter-of-fact, as though they are the discussing the weather. “We were allies once, many years ago, it is not a time I choose to remember if I can't help it.” She hopes it is obvious enough to the princess that the subject is not for discussion.

To Ivy's relief Hildegard does not push the matter, in fact nods understandingly – though what she thinks she is understanding Ivy isn't sure - either way, it seems that girl relaxes and gestures for them to start walking again.

There are no further words between them till they reach the market hall once more and find Ivy's guard waiting for them with one hand wrapped in the reins of a dappled grey horse. Ivy wastes no time in securing the sword to the saddle, then moving to the beast's head to acquaint herself with her new mount before leaping onto it's back.

“Does he have a name?” She asks of the soldier who hands her the reins.

“Brecht,” the man doesn't really look at her when he answers.

Ivy chooses to ignore the slight, and instead turns back to the princess still stood nearby. “My thanks again, Your Highness, I do appreciate your generosity.”

Hildegard nods amiably. “I wish you a safe journey home, madam countess, perhaps we will meet again.”

“Perhaps,” Ivy agrees though she very much doubts they will. She has had her fill of destiny, entwined as it was with a cursed sword, now it is over, now she is...free?

Ivy pulls herself into the saddle, raising a hand in farewell to the royal general before turning her mount towards the tumbled gates of an abandoned town. Leaving behind a dying land, it's curse, and that which brought it. It is done with now, and Ivy ponders just a little the future she might find upon her return home.

﻿

 


End file.
